Page 81 of Babalon

On my way to the neglected church space, I step into the musty room and look around, hands sink into the pockets on the front of my jumper as I look around the empty space. It’s odd not seeing devoted followers of Christ fill the pews. I don’t know what the current priest is doing but it is apparent that he is failing as a messenger of God.

“You must be the new guy,” a man calls out from my left. He steps through what appears to be an office door. One of those heavy wood ones with a frosted pane of glass to provide a level of privacy.

“Yes, I’m Lucien, you must be Father…” I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the gap. With a shift in my stance, I lean against one of the rear pews, gauging the interaction as it unfolds.

“You can call me William, just never Bill. That’s my dad.”

“William. You don’t prefer to use your ordained title?”

“Not at all, kids don’t partake in titles that much anymore.”

“I wasn’t aware there were children in the prison, William.”

“Obviously not, but when you have a title, outside of these walls it follows you and that’s where kids come into play.”

“Hmm.”

I follow him for a moment, he grabs a stack of worn-out bibles off a small table near the door to his office. With an arm full, he proceeds to walk right up to me, and I automatically reach out to take the load off.

“We don’t get many in here, the Hispanic crew comes in at random but usually through mass times. The black population likes to be here bright and early on Sunday morning. The warden manages to get a hold of donated bibles, so if you could go ahead and spread them out amongst the pews, we can be ready for them in a few days.”

“Of course,” I reply, taking a few steps away until I am able to round the end of one set of benches and start placing the Bibles down on the seat—one at each end of every row.

“Tell me about you, Lucien. Are you a follower of the Lord?”

“I am but not in a traditional sense.”

“Feel free to elaborate if you would like.”

I would like, as hesitant and defiant as I was when I was a teenager, this is what I know—only because my relationship differed.

“My old man is a preacher. He’s been one since I was a teen.”

“You didn’t follow in his footsteps, I take it?”

“I mean, if you want to consider that he is still a sinner despite being a religious leader, I did. I’m just a follower of Christ. I let him speak through me and lead me where he wants me to go.”

“Ahh, a free spirit. That makes more sense. There are a few of those here at Darkwater. Tell me more, if we are going to be working together, it’s only fair that we know one another.”

He’s digging. I don’t know if this is his brand of ministry but he seems more like a therapist rather than someone who spreads gospel. Interesting to say the least.

Dropping the last bible, finishing the task, I walk over to the steps that lead up to where an altar would normally be. A single wood podium stands off the right side with the son of God crucified to the cross hanging up over head. I stare up at him, it’s been so long since I’ve slowed down enough to admire my savior.

The prison may be lacking in a lot of things but the crucifix is stunning. The wooden details, the blood painted on to the wounds hammered through Jesus’s palms and feet is a deep red versus bright red like people assume blood is. His head is tilted forward, his rib bones prominent from starvation, and around his head the crown of thorns. Everything about the crucifix is mesmerizing.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” William asks, coming up behind me. For a guy not much older than me, from the looks of it, he doesn’t seem to be intimidated by men like me.

“It is. My Father doesn’t have anything remotely as beautiful as this one.”

“One of them new age takes?”

“Yeah, something like that. Just a sleek and modern cross. The Son is not present.”

I continue to stare up at the object of my obsession while he moves around the makeshift church, still rattling on about family and what have you. He can talk until he is blue in the face and I still won’t be listening, not when his words are broken up by the voices in my head.

“What about you? Siblings of any kind?”

“Huh? I—I don’t know, maybe. My mother was a whore who died from a drug overdose and complications of liver failure— consumption.”

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